


Discord in the Garden

by pocketfulofposies



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Brainwashing, Cults, Dry Humping, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fantasizing, Masturbation, Mental Instability, Multiple Personalities, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Obsession, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse, Rough Kissing, Stalking, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, Verbal Abuse, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22690225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketfulofposies/pseuds/pocketfulofposies
Summary: "Ray thinks about kissing you and about you kissing him and about how he shouldn't be thinking about these things at all. Something about you seems so ethereal and pure, like an artifact mortal hands aren't fit to touch. He's not sure why—he knows you've had lovers before, but just the thought of his hands on your bare skin makes him feel a graverobber, like he's desecrated hallowed ground. He supposes it's because he's spent his entire life up to this point searching for something holy, something that he can believe in. Anything can become an idol if even just one man worships it sincerely enough."A series of angsty, smutty oneshots featuring Saeran, Ray, and MC, taking place at different points throughout Ray's Another Story route. They are chronological but not directly linked.
Relationships: Choi Saeran/Main Character, Choi Saeran/Reader, Ray/Main Character, ray/reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 354





	1. Daffodil

**Author's Note:**

> listen,,, it is 2020 and i am just beside myself waiting for the saeran ae. i've been waiting for what feels like my entire life because i don't think my life began until i fell in love w these fictional men. i am not over saeran choi and suspect i never will be. none of us have had closure, and i cope by writing a multi-chapter slowburn Soft fic for a mostly dead fandom with an unnecessarily flowery writing style. thank u.

Ray wonders what you see when you look at him. 

Surely not the same face reflected back to him in the dark of his computer monitor, surely not. His skin's pallor is ghastly—the sickly pale of a social recluse, and his eye bags and bleach-brittled white hair do little but wash out his color more. He hasn't eaten properly or slept well in so long, his heartbeat is a testament to the human body's resilence. He's scrawny, he's unattractive, he knows this, he reminds himself of this near-constantly when you're in the room, and the only consolation is that with dark, sunken-in eyes and hollow cheeks, he bears less of a resemblance to his brother.

And yet, you smile at him like he's the sun, but he's not—you are. You are every star in the sky. He's some nameless planet, tidal-locked. You're going to be the end of him one day, he knows it. Eventually all that brilliant fire of yours will engulf him and reduce him to ash, until there's nothing left. There was nothing there to begin with, nothing worth salvaging. He welcomes it, truthfully, because oh, what a way to go. He can't think of a better way to die than by your hands.

Ray doubts you would still smile at him like you do, if he told you that.

He shouldn't care about you as much as he does. It's pathetic, really—he knows it is. Not much time has passed since he lured you here to Mint Eye's headquarters, and he can't pretend he doesn't envy you for having lived a life on the outside as you have, with friends, a family who loves you back. You haven't known him for very long, but he already knows everything about you. He has since before you officially met. Mint Eye's vetting process is extensive, and he's privy to far more of your personal information than he's letting on.

He knows your birthday from your private profile and the name of that nice restaurant your college friends took you to to celebrate it last year, and he's catalogued all the pictures you posted across your social media pages together. You left a glowing review online, so he daydreams about taking you there to eat someday. He knows what brand of tea you like and how you drink it—lukewarm, with a bit of lemon—and when he served it to you last time he brought lunch to your room, he pretended it was just a happy coincidence. He knows how your last relationship ended, and seeing the pictures of you together with that scumbag made his blood boil. He'd kill your ex if they ever crossed paths, he thinks. He wishes he could tell you that you deserved better, but nothing about relationships was in the brief survey you took to see if you qualified for the "game testing," so he shouldn't bring it up.

The last thing he wants is to scare you off, but he hates having to hide how much he knows about you. Of course, you can't leave—it was never in the cards for you to leave. But you don't know that yet, and if you tried to run away, it would only escalate the situation and interfere with your purpose here.

And Saeran would hate you for it. Right now, Ray doesn't believe he could ever hate you, but according to Saeran, when someone you care about leaves, you eventually stop missing them and just start to hate them. That's an awfully sad thing to think about.

A little shaken from the thought, Ray unplugs his phone, warm and overcharged. The brightness sits squarely at 0%, but it still stings his eyes. They're accustomed to the darkness of his "office," a dank space with only the dim light of the monitor illuminating it. He slides through the expansive gallery of your photos he's downloaded across all your online profiles. He has your selfies—you smiling and making silly faces at the camera, one of you failing at a wink is his personal favorite, and it's been his background for over a week—candid shots of you posing with your arm around classmates, unflattering old pictures. He always feels guilty after looking at them—like he's seen something he shouldn't, felt something he shouldn't—and it's beyond obvious you're becoming a distraction to him at this point.

He's behind on his tasks assigned by the Savior, and she won't be pleased, but she never is. She never smiles at him or praises him, not like you do, but those sorts of thoughts are dangerous. Before putting his phone away and returning his focus to hacking, he ventures to click on your name in his contacts.

> **Ray:**
> 
> I really hope you're enjoying the game, MC. ^^

He types everything carefully, over-considering each individual word, like it's an essay and you're going to be grading him. Yet, after every message he sends, he overwhelms himself fretting that he hasn't said the right things. He wants to say the right things. That creates an obvious paradox when it becomes clear everything he is telling you is a lie. It's not a game, and he doesn't really want you to enjoy it. He resents everyone in the RFA, and the thought of you cozying up to them makes his stomach churn, but of course he can't say that.

> **Ray:**
> 
> I'll be programming all evening, working out some of the bugs in the AI...
> 
> **Ray:**
> 
> But as soon as I'm free, I'll bring us some dinner to your room, ok? 

Too presumptuous. He shouldn't impose his company on you, and he needs to maintain a professional distance if this ruse is going to stay believable. He quickly adds,

> **Ray:**
> 
> or I can just leave it at the door for you, if you prefer! ^^

That would probably be better. The Savior isn't pleased with his attentions on you, and surely you don't want to be around someone like him more than you have to.

> **MC:**
> 
> thank you you're really sweet :) i look forward to our dinner 
> 
> **MC:**
> 
> but be sure to take breaks, please! you spend so much time working...

The way you speak to him, so patient, so gentle. It's almost like you care, but that couldn't be it. Not you, not about him. Nevertheless, Ray screenshots this. 

> **Ray:**
> 
> Alright, I'll try to! ;;
> 
> **Ray:**
> 
> I don't know why, but it feels really nice when you worry for me...
> 
> **Ray:**
> 
> I'm sorry, that's probably really selfish.
> 
> **MC:**
> 
> it's not selfish
> 
> **MC:**
> 
> i think everyone likes having people care for them

You're always reassuring him he hasn't done anything wrong, and he's not sure what to make of it. He's going to get too comfortable and say something he shouldn't one of these days, and you'll hate him for it. Saeran frequently reminds him you're going to hate him sooner or later, anyway, and you're going to abandon him—because everyone will eventually. It's inevitable. It's his curse. It's by the Savior's grace alone that he's alive at all.

> **Ray:**
> 
> It's a really nice feeling...
> 
> **Ray:**
> 
> I think especially because it's you.

You assuage the worst of his anxiety with a heart emoji, then close out of the chat. An ultimately successful interaction. He screenshots this, as well, before returning his focus to your pictures once more. You're pretty, he thinks, eyes scanning a shot of you in formal attire at some work event or another—a simple, classy black dress that shows the curve of your waist paired with heels, your hair pinned up giving him a nice view of your slender neck and collarbones. You're _so_ pretty, he thinks, sliding his finger to the next photo—a low resolution image of you, presumably at a costume party; you're only in the background, but the three inky black make-up whiskers painted on either side of your nose catch his eye, as well as the cheap cat ear headband likely bought off the budget wrack last-minute. You're _so, so, so_ pretty, he thinks, stumbling on an image holding a giant mug of coffee, barefaced with a sleepy smile, hair down. 

_How are you so pretty?_

He thinks about kissing you and about you kissing him and about how he shouldn't be thinking about these things at all. Something about you seems so ethereal and pure, like an artifact mortal hands aren't fit to touch. He's not sure why—he knows you've had lovers before, but just the thought of his hands on your bare skin makes him feel a graverobber, like he's desecrated hallowed ground. He supposes it's because he's spent his entire life up to this point searching for something holy, something that he can believe in. Anything can become an idol if even just one man worships it sincerely enough.

Sick to his stomach, he unzips his trousers and grips his semi-flaccid cock, cheeks aflush with equal parts shame and arousal. With his free hand, he scrolls deeper into his gallery, settling on an image of you out with your friends, hair-mussed and clearly a little drunk. 

He closes his eyes and gives his growing erection a half-hearted stroke, wishing his hand was yours and wishing he didn't wish for things like this from you. It's repulsive. He's repulsive. But in his fantasies, you're never disgusted by him like you should be. No, you're standing over him, smiling adoringly. You're kissing his neck and telling him he's a good boy, that he's doing a good job, and you're whispering in his ear that you love him, _only_ him, and that you'll never leave. Honey drips from your tongue as you coo his name like it's something sacred too.

He curls his fingers tighter around his dick, whining at the contact. Gathering up the excess of precum, he slathers it along the shaft, involuntarily bucking into his hand. He shudders. What would it feel like inside of you, he wonders again briefly, then banishes the thought. He could never. 

Ray doesn't have a lot of experience with sex, and what he does have isn't especially pleasant or memorable. It's not the tender embrace of someone he loves, it's delirious out of his mind on the Elixir with disciples he doesn't entirely recognize and on the cold floor. It's the ensuing emptiness and shame. He doesn't want to think about that. He doesn't want to think about anything. He just wants you to hold him for a lifetime or two, but that's too much to ask.

He pumps his cock faster, less desperate for release than he is desperate to be over and done with this so he can focus on his computer screen and work up the nerve to look you in eyes at dinner this evening. He whimpers—the quietest little sound—and finishes into his hand. When clarity finds him again, so does the stale disappointment of never getting what he wants.


	2. Begonia

Lines of code are consistent and easy to understand. As long as Saeran types the right characters, they do what he wants. He's not sure if hacking was ever something he felt particularly passionate about, but he's good at it. He's the best—better than Saeyoung. And sometimes the Savior even praises him for it. He's _useful_. He's _necessary_. Mint Eye needs him, and for as long as that's true, they won't be able to throw him away.

Sometimes there is comfort in the familiar, even where it hurts you. The blaring light from his computer screen and the rapidly-shifting numbers and letters sting his eyes, but at least he knows that sting well. He doesn't know a great many things about much else, like how people work. If only you were so simple. If only he could pop open your control panel and input a few lines of code to make you do whatever he asked and love him back. 

Especially love him back.

It's all so ridiculous, of course it is, and it both frustrates and confounds him. For wanting it. For not being able to have it. For the uncertainty of whether it would truly make him happy or not. Part of your charm, he surmises, is in your agency. Your unpredictability. You never act as he anticipates, for better or for worse.

When you were having dinner together with Ray, and you outstretched your arm towards him, he flinched, because flinching is all you know how to do when physical contact becomes synonymous with pain. He couldn't have anticipated you were only going to brush the stray hair from his eyes—no, surely he'd done something to deserve your ire, and the agony your rejection wrought hurt more than anything your dainty little hands were capable of. 

But you didn't strike him, you just keep reaching and reaching, and—too close.

You were too close. _You were too close._

And—

* * *

_Several other Believers shambled towards him from all directions. He's sure he knows who each of them were, but it was dark and he couldn't make out their individual features from beneath their hoods—they were all in drab, matching robes, ceremonial attire._

_He stumbled back, but the crowd wouldn't part for him. He had collapsed from exhaustion on duty the night before, and the Savior wasn't pleased. She's never pleased with him, never smiles at him. No one is, no one does. No one. Never never never._

_The Savior, in her more vibrantly colored cloak, stepped out from the crowd, approaching him, and her small, bony hand gripped his chin tightly, much too tightly. "Why have you failed me once again?" she asked, with a disappointed, almost maternal tone to her voice, punctuated by the murmuring chorus of the others all around them expressing their disdain._

_Some primal urge bubbled inside Saeran to struggle, to physically fight back, but he swallowed it down, and Ray's voice answered in a shaky sob, "I-I'm sorry. I'm so—I'm so sorry. I know I'm weak, but I'll do better. I'll keep trying." His voice cracked, and his eyes were strained wide, bloodshot and red, but he was much too dehydrated for tears to come out. When was the last time he had some water?_

_The Savior stroked his cheek, almost like a lover would, and it made his skin crawl._

_And then there was nothing but hands, hands, hands, hands. Reaching out for him, grabbing him from all directions, prying his mouth open, clutching vials of the Elixir_ _and forcing it down. It burned his throat, and it made him retch, and he was helpless. He was so helpless, and he was scared, but he didn't scream, because after a while,_ _when no one comes to help no matter how much noise you make, you learn to stay silent._

* * *

The harsh smacking sound of him slapping your hand away had echoed through the room before he even fully processed you reaching towards him. An involuntary gesture. You gasped quietly, stifling it on your sleeve, but he'd seen the way your mouth momentarily twisted into a wince.

Ray jerked his whole body back, like you'd pulled a knife on him, not extended one warm, impossibly soft hand. A million scenarios flashed through his brain, and none of them were good. Granted, every interaction he had with you concluded with a conviction firm in his gut that he had said something to ruin it all, but this time, he thought, it had to be true. _He hurt you, he hurt you, he hurt you, he hurt you._ The panicked feeling welling up in him was all-too similar to that brought on by the memory you had unintentionally triggered.

But then your wince was replaced with a sheepish smile, and you'd said, "Oh, I'm sorry I startled you! I wasn't thinking." That blessed unpredictability.

"N-no, MC, you—you really didn't do anything wrong," Ray had replied, but in his eyes, nothing you could do would ever be wrong. You had most likely figured that out already. It would be easy to take advantage of it, Saeran thinks, and harder not to. Ray is so simple-minded—one kind word, one angelic smile, one whiff of your sweet vanilla scent, and he's wrapped around your finger forever.

Saeran refuses to be manipulated like that

"It doesn't matter if it's wrong or not!" you insisted. "I promise to be more considerate of your boundaries in the future." The way you had punctuated your words with a solemn nod—it was endearing, like you were pledging your life to a greater cause, not the comfort of one pitiable weakling. "I'll warn you first next time, okay??"

That was when Saeran realized that you loved Ray back.

And you don't love him, and it shouldn't bother him as much as it does. His life belongs to the Savior, to Mint Eye, and there's no room for him to care about women, least of all you. _You're insignificant_ , he tells himself. _A worthless little bug, no one could care about you_ —except he doesn't really believe that. Or maybe he does, but not about you. It was never about you, was it?

You kissed Ray in the garden, the kiss that never should have been, and for some reason that hurt, and that's probably why he's so furious whenever he looks at you now—the fact that you have the ability to hurt him without even knowing it, without even trying. He'll make you regret it, he swears this.

The kiss was terrible, Saeran thinks. It was awkward. Your noses bumped, and your teeth clicked, and it had startled Ray so much he didn't even have time to close his eyes—but you still smiled at him afterwards. You still made that soft, contented little exhale as you withdrew your lips. And by the time Ray had reassembled himself, all he could think to do was run away. That's all Ray ever does.

If it were Saeran, things would have been much different. What Ray wants, Saeran takes. He would have pinned you to the wall. His mouth and tongue's conquest would have been almost too violent to refer to as something soft like a kiss. He wants to bruise the ever-loving hell out of your lips, dig his teeth into your neck until you bleed, scratch angry red lines down your back, and leave you disoriented and breathless. 

He would have grabbed your shoulders and shoved you down to your knees. Stuffed his cock in your mouth, watched you sputter and choke, and he'd reprimand you for slobbering all over it, call you degrading names like "toy" and "whore." Thrust his hips against your mouth and fuck your face mercilessly, see your flushed cheeks and tear-streaked makeup streaming down your face. He wants to see you cry, pull your hair, make you beg, devour all that you are so that he might never know such hunger again.

And you'd love every second of it, he thinks, he hopes, he imagines, he prays.

Ray could never pull that off.

But you don't love him, you love Ray. And Ray's not real. Saeran's real—only Saeran. Ray's a fake. Ray's a pathetic amalgamation of all the weakest parts of himself that were too deeply-ingrained to cut away. A cockroach. That's all Ray is. Not like him. _He's_ strong, he's so strong, and he'll break you, he will, before you have the chance to hurt him ever again.


	3. Tansy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a forewarning, this chapter is a little violent. i implore that you do look over the tags carefully to avoid any material that may be upsetting to you. this is in part a ventfic to express many feelings, written to explore some darker and grittier elements of a character i really enjoy—not to glorify or romanticize abuse.

Your room is almost pitch dark, save the moonlight shining in from the window, illuminating your tormentor's disheveled hair and ill-fitting suit. Saeran has you pinned against the bed, and his face is barely an inch above yours, and he's screaming at you—he won't stop screaming at you. You're not sure if he actually plans to kill you, but at this point you're too tired and empty to care anymore.

"Why...why are you trembling...?" he demands, and you don't point out that he is, too. It's like his arms are going to give out, like he could collapse beneath his own weight at any minute, but his eyes are bloodshot and manic, features contorted into something dark and primal, with only a passing resemblance to rage. It's closer to fear, you think, like a frightened animal gnashing at the bars of its cage until its teeth chip and its gums bleed. You can hardly reconcile them to be the same eyes that regarded you with such a gentle warmth before, like you were something precious, something to cherish. "Why are you so afraid of me, you stupid toy? You stupid, _broken_ toy." Flecks of his saliva splatter across your nose and cheeks. He's practically frothing at the mouth, and you have the urge to wipe it away with your arm, but you don't. "Answer me. Answer me! Toys shouldn't break this easily."

"I want to talk to Ray," you say simply.

" _I'm_! _Ray_!" he roars, shaking your shoulders with a grip you wouldn't have imagined such feeble, unsteady hands capable of. The back of your head collides hard with the bed's wooden frame, so hard you think it might shatter your skull."Why can't you understand that? _I'm_ Ray. I'm Ray!"

"You are," you concede through gritted teeth. You're gripping the silken bedsheets so tightly, your knuckles are turning white, and it's difficult to keep your voice even and low. "But something happened, didn't it? You don't treat me like you used to."

He says nothing, but he stares at you. You assume it's because he's noticed the angry, defiant tears forming in the corners of your eyes and isn't sure what to make of them. It almost makes you want to shield your face. You don't like the idea of anyone seeing you cry, especially not him—because it feels a whole lot like losing. To whom, you're not sure. Not to him, certainly, because he's lost too. He lost long before you ever did. He's the reason you need to stay strong.

You're such an ugly crier, too, you always have been. It's not pretty or poignant like it is in those TV dramas where the skinny actresses quietly monologue under flattering lighting. Scratchy irritation lines creep across the whites of your eyes, your cheeks puff up red and inflamed, there are residual make-up smudges caked across your cheeks, your nose runs into your mouth, and you're still left with a dehydration headache when it's over.

You'd really like a glass of cold water right now, you think. And a shower that lasts forever.

"I'm worried about you," you croak. "I don't think this place is good for you, Saeran."

He chokes out an incredulous noise akin to a laugh, but it's not a laugh. There is no amusement. It's a bitter sound from a bitter man. "Worry about yourself," he spits, locking his icy fingertips around your throat. He applies no pressure—it's just a warning he doesn't mean. "You know I could kill you right now. I could."

"You won't, though."

" _Shut up_!" He rears one hand back, like he's going to slap you, and you close your eyes to brace for impact but it never comes. He doesn't hit you, he could never hit you, because he knows you would forgive him, but Ray wouldn't—and he can't apologize to Ray. There's no way to apologize to the ghosts you've made. When you open your eyes again, he's staring down at you with clenched teeth, horrified, like you've transformed into a maggot-riddled carcass squirming beneath him. All his breaths are shallow and broken. "You don't...you don't know anything about me," he says quietly, but he doesn't either. He is what the Savior has told him he is, be it weak or strong or worthless or valuable, and it changes based on her capricious whims. He's whatever is convenient. Nothing more, nothing else. He's never had the chance to figure it out for himself, and now he probably thinks it's too late.

"I can tell that you're in pain right now."

"I'm not," he counters quickly, almost before you finish talking, but his own voice faltering contradicts him. He re-emphasizes, "I'm not! I'm strong. I'm so strong. Nothing can hurt me, least of all y...you."

"You're very strong, Saeran."

"I don't need _you_ to tell me that—" He's shaking his head wildly. It must be hard on his neck, you think. "I don't need anything from you! Or from Saeyoung, from my mother, from anyone!" He continues to scream at you until his throat is hoarse. They're a little boy's screams, confused and terrified.

You wait until his shoulders are heaving and he's panting, then hold out your hands in a disarming gesture, shushing him in the same gentle voice you would use to soothe a child down from a nightmare. "I'm about to touch you," you caution him first if only to make good on your promise to Ray, but you don't give him time to respond before cupping his face in your hands. "I know you're strong."

He doesn't resist your touch, but he tenses beneath it and holds his breath captive in his throat. "Shut...up," he says again, and that strain in his voice—it's love. There's nothing else it could be. Though he would never admit it, not with words. In his eyes, telling someone you love them is like handing them a loaded gun. "Oh, goddammit..."

He leans forward, lips pausing a hair's length away from yours. He's not hesitating so much as gauging your reaction, waiting to see if you struggle beneath him. He exhales sofly, and you smell traces of the Elixir on his breath, something between rubbing alcohol and mint. Then he crashes his lips into yours—impatient and unkind, nothing like the sweet, romantic kiss you shared with Ray in the garden. It's a different animal entirely. His lips are chapped and scrape your skin, you taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, and he's shoving his body into yours like he wants to swallow you whole.

The lurid wet sounds of your kiss echo through the room, and you feel his hardness poking into your waist where he's straddled you. Saeran rolls his hips against you. You think he intended to be more subtle about it first, but the way he moans into your mouth makes it all-too obvious, so he buckles down and repeats the motion, desperate for just a little more stimulation. When he pulls away, there's a long, sticky string of saliva connecting your mouths—you're pretty sure it's yours.

"You can stop me," he states simply, but the harshness of his voice makes it sound more like a command. His head is angled down, and he won't look at you. You can't see for sure if he's blushing or not through the oppressive veil of night, but you feel the heat emanating from his body like a lone candle on a winter night.

You respond by bucking your hips back against his, letting out a soft little, "aah."

He buries his mouth in the curve of your neck and makes some kind of sound—you'd compare it to a choke or a hiss—and the hot breath he expels sends shivers down your spine. He continues to rub his clothed erection against you, drawing out the friction as long as he can. You feel his dick throb against you, and you want to touch him, you really do, but somehow that seems very much like crossing a line, so you just squeeze your thighs together and imagine.

He apparently does not share your reservations, because he yanks one of your nightgown's straps down your shoulder, exposing your breast. The chill night air hardens your nipple before he even has the chance to touch you. He grazes it with his teeth, he gives it a few long, slow licks starting as high as your collarbone. The moist trail left behind shines in the pale moonlight, and finally, finally, he takes it in his mouth and sucks. He growls, and you feel the pleasant vibrations from his throat all across your bared chest, and you can't help but writhe beneath him, gasping for air.

The pace of his thrusts hastens, becoming more jagged and wild, and he grunts loud. He's short of breath, his heart is pounding, but he rides out the rest of his orgasm against you until his dick is oversensitive and twitching. There's a visible stain in his pants, but the thrumming ache between your legs is still there and unsatisfied. You want more.

"A-ah, _fuck_..." He clutches his head, and in an instant, the room's atmosphere shifts. Something quieter, more subdued replaces the thick aura of lust and rage until it dissipates into nothingness, like you're stuck in blank space and you're going to suffocate there.

"Saeran?"

"I'm sorry," he rasps. It's Saeran's voice, but it's not Saeran. Ray. He sits up, and he's digging his nails into the palms of his hands, hard enough to break the surface of his skin and draw blood, and he looks a breath away from sobbing. "God, I'm sorry, I—" He's shaking his head again, like he doesn't believe any of this, or at least doesn't want to.

"No, please don't be sorry!" you say emphatically, and slowly—ever-so-slowy—extend your hand to stroke his hair. It's matted and damp with sweat—really, you both could use a bath, especially now. "You didn't do anything wrong, neither did Saeran. We both wanted it, so it's all okay. You can even keep going, if you'd like."

"Do you want me to?" he asks, but his voice cracks. He flashes you the look of a man content to be ripped apart, as long as it's by your hands. "Would that really make you happy? I...would it make you love me?"

Guilt twists in his gut, because this is all wrong wrong wrong _wrong,_ like he's soiled you, like you'll never get clean again. He sees the kissmarks on your neck, the indentations on your skin in the shape of his teeth, the way your nightdress has been tugged down, and it feels sacrilegious. He wants you, of course he wants you, but not like this. Not rough, sloppy kisses, not rutting against you like an animal in heat. You deserve so much better than that, better than this, better than him. His head spins, and if he could die in that moment, you think that he would.

"Please don't talk like that. I already love you," you tell him, entangling your fingers in his ivory locks. "Of course I love you. Ray, I love all of you."

He crumples his body against yours and weeps. You're not sure if it's because he doesn't believe you or because he does.


	4. Morning Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so elephant in the room is that this isn't a very accurate portrayal of mental illness. i know this, you know this. it is what it is.
> 
> i'm working more with what we saw in the source material than what would be most believable irl. saeran's exact diagnosis is fairly unclear—like DID is the obvious pick, though the fact that he ultimately "cures" it almost overnight is a little odd, his voice actor thinks saeran has BPD, and secret ending only said "mild mental disorder and stress-related gastritis" so there's not a lot to work with.
> 
> i'm a mentally ill writer, i did as much research as i can, and unfortunately i'm still not 100% content with how i balanced realism and canon compliance, so my goal is mostly to just be respectful with it. suspend your disbelief as much as you can for me lol

In the end, there is precious little difference between those who hurt others and those who stand idly while others hurt.

He isn't entirely sure if he's Saeran or Ray right now, but he doesn't think it matters anymore. The distinction was trivial to begin with. Saeran and Ray are both fragments of the same person, a stranger to him now, who just happened to shatter in different ways—one into sharp, jagged edges, the other into dust, eroded and misshapen by time, and it took you loving them both as one man for him to even want to piece himself back together again. They're a coping mechanism, one that the Savior expressly encouraged, in line with her philosophy of embracing the "inner darkness" but now, he thinks, he'd rather live under your light. He isn't darkness; he was never darkness. She was. The Savior took the innocent little boy who loved ice cream and flowers, and she fashioned him into sickness and violence and misdirected his rage. He wonders if she ever truly believed the things she told him, or if it was simply easier to control him as the two discordant halves of a traumatized child, resigned to failure, than as he is now—a man willing to fight and die for his love.

He's still coming down from the fever brought on by the Elixir overdose, and he can't compartmentalize everything running through his mind the way that he used to. All that he's feeling is front-and-center—it's overwhelming, and it makes his head pound in tandem with the quickened pace of his hammering heart. It was so much easier, he thinks, to accept that he was broken, than it is to try and fix the mess of himself. Without you, Ray would have buckled under the strain and given up, and Saeran would never have bothered. Ray wanted to protect you but was never strong enough, and Saeran was a feral creature, wounded and enraged, who only cared about protecting himself. For years and years, that's all he ever needed to be, but he's come to realize that taking the easiest path only made him miserable. Doggedly pledging himself to someone else's purpose, following orders aimlessly and hoping only to experience as little pain as possible—that's not living. Living is the way you twirl your hair between your fingers, it's your dimples when you smile, and it's your snorting laugh. And that's worth whatever pain it brings, because finally, finally, finally, the pain will mean something. It will be pain he chose to endure.

Everything feels so different now, he thinks. He's Saeran and he's Ray and he's neither and he's both. He's Saeran's savage anger, married to Ray's compassion, and he won't hurt you ever again, nor will he be complicit while anyone else does, either. He's taken his happiness and yours into his own hands. Now, he knows his hands are ugly—they're dirty and calloused from garden work, scarred from clawing at the restraints his mother used on him after Saeyoung left, his nails are uneven and chipped because Ray chews them when he's nervous, and one index finger has had an awkward bend to it ever since Saeran broke it years ago—but they're practiced hands, they're well-trained hands. They can hack into the RFA's messenger app, they can nurture the most finicky flower to bloom, and he's gaining confidence that they can make you happy too. He's been holding you with an iron grip ever since you fled Magenta at his side, like he's afraid if he lets go for even a second, the ground will rend beneath him, and you'll fall out of reach forever.

Absentmindedly, he strokes his thumb along your knuckles, trying to soothe the ache of squeezing much too tight.

"Saeran? Hello-o-o? Saeran? Or...Ray?" your voice cuts in, but it's the cherry-vanilla scent of your perfume that drags him back to the present. "Are you all right?"

He blinks a few times, eyes vacant but fixed on you. Your hair's slicked down with sweat and full of tangles, mascara's running down your cheeks, and that little white sundress you loved so much is filthy and tattered, his burgundy jacket draped over your shoulders barely enough to preserve your modesty. The escape really did a number on you both. You're beautiful, he thinks, and only then does it register that you're calling his name. "Huh...?" He sucks in a breath, jerking his body upright. "Oh... Yes, sorry, I'm fine. I'm just a little overwhelmed by everything still."

"Don't apologize. I think anyone would be, in your shoes."

"Yeah..." He keeps glancing out the musty, cracked windows of the hideaway, even though he doubts any of Rika's disciples are pursuing you anymore. And if they are, they're going in the wrong direction. Serving as the Savior's most loyal dog came with very few privileges, one of those being administrative permissions on all of Mint Eye's devices. He cut off the security cameras and manually tripped the alarm for the exit on the other side of the building. But his heart's caught in his throat and he can't stop bouncing his leg on the floor, hasn't even heard how loud the floorboards creak under his boot.

"You were really cool back there, you know," you tell him with an alarmingly easygoing grin. "I'm so, so proud of you. And grateful too."

Saeran almost chuckles, but he's too nervous and ends up just exhaling more air from his nose than usual. A sheepish, lopsided smile creeps across his lips. "Ah, really? No one's said that to me before."

"Then I'll just have to remind you often." You kiss his nose, and he can't fathom how you're so giddy, like you're on your honeymoon and not hiding in a dilapidated shack in the middle of nowhere, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with an accomplice in your kidnapping. In theory, he understands that you love him the same way he loves you, but he can't grasp what that means in practice just yet.

Wordlessly, he fishes the water bottle he filled in the cold stream outside from his bag, unscrews the cap, takes a sip, then passes it to you. Night is setting in, and there's no electricity or running water—the only source of light are the weak embers in the fireplace, lit by his pocket lighter and fed with twigs and brush from the surrounding land. Cobwebs and dark blotches of mold garnish the interior, and the couch cushions were full of so much dust, he had to beat them outside before sitting down. But, he thinks, if this was where the journey ended, the both of you living out the rest of your lives in hiding together here, that would be good enough for him. Maybe even hell could become a paradise with your company. 

But that's a daydream for another time.

"We can't stay here much longer," he asserts, "so you should get some rest. I'll watch over you." He won't admit it, but he's watched you sleep before, more than once. Always by tuning into the cameras in your room, hyperfocusing on the way your lips moved and the gentle rise and fall of your chest. Some nights, it was the only way Ray could wind down.

"I don't think I could sleep, even if I wanted to, but—" You tap at his shoulder, and once you have his attention, slowly, serenely trace your fingers along his brow. "—I'm more concerned for you. I know how sick you were, and your temperature's still a little high."

He sighs softly, and the ghost of a smile etches its way back across his lips. "When you worry about me, I can never decide if I should apologize or say 'thank you', but...either way, just know I'll be okay." He caresses your cheek, affectionate, if a little stiff, and continues, "To tell you the truth, I actually feel really good right now." 

"You do?"

"I can hear my heart pounding in my chest, but my body feels light and I can't stop smiling. It's like a dream." For a brief moment, a strike of uncertainty flickers in his eyes, but he exiles the worry and continues with a newfound conviction, "But it's not a dream. This is real, and you're here, and..."

"Aaand?" You cling to his shoulder, tone airy and playful.

"I'm happy," he says, and the words feel foreign on his tongue. They're spoken almost like an admission of guilt, but it's not wrong of him, is it? There's no one to dictate how he's allowed to feel now.

You absolve him by replying, "That's good! You deserve to be happy." You're looking right at him and you don't hesitate. Loving and being loved come so naturally to you, but he has to work himself into this new mindset one step at a time. He still doesn't know if he believes you, but knowing that you feel that way is enough. You're awfully close, he thinks. _So close_. The gravity of your lips is pulling him in, before he even realizes it. 

"Can I kiss you...?" He refuses to tear his eyes away from you, even as his ears burn and his cheeks flush red. He feels greedy and indecent for asking, but you're lovers, aren't you? Isn't it normal to want these things? Isn't it? He doesn't know, hasn't found the baseline for what's appropriate and what's not. "Before we go, I want to kiss you more. I want to kiss you all over. Can I...can I do that for you?"

"You can do anything you want to me." 

"I—Are you sure?" He chokes.

You respond by kissing him, your lips soft and pliable against his. Your lipstick smudges in the corners of his mouth, and the kiss does not remain chaste for very long. You part his lips with your tongue, slipping it along his. He remembers the quick kiss you gave him in the garden and the heated ones in your room, and how both of those seemed like mortal sins in their own ways, first decadence then defilement, and he thinks about how different it is now. Somewhere along the line, between defying the Savior and taking your hand, kissing you stopped feeling so blasphemous and became an act of worship too. Sinking lower, he suckles a tender spot on your neck, careful not to leave a mark, but hard enough to make you gasp.

"I want to make up for, for before, when Sae—when I—" 

"No." The sudden sterness of your tone makes him flinch. His cheeks are squished between your hands, and he can't help but focus on how earnest your eyes look, the sincerity in your voice. "Listen, you don't have to 'make up for' anything." You may be scolding him, but he thinks he likes that too. "Do it because you want to. No other reason."

"I-I do want to," he manages. "I do. I really, really do. I promise I do." His blush deepens—he sounds much too eager, but that's because he is. Saeran is nothing if not a zealot—he devotes all that he is to what he believes in, carves it into religion. He wonders if he were to cast aside all pretenses and be as honest and unguarded as a man can be, if he could ever truly express the extent of what you do to him. Probably not, he thinks. He's not sure there are even words for that, certainly none that he knows, but he's never been the type to write hymns before, only recite the lyrics. "I'm sorry, I'm just—I'm just not used to it mattering what I want. It's..."

 _Intoxicating_ , he thinks, but the words die in his throat.

"All right... Then I want it too." You smile that same smile that saved his life the first time he saw it and continues to save his life even now by imbuing with the sense of that divine purpose he's always longed for. He's been looking for gods in the wrong places until now. 

Saeran gets down on his knees, a clear gesture he cannot help but liken to prayer. Clammy hands reverently slide up your legs, starting at your ankles and pausing at your thighs, leaving a trail of light kisses in their wake, each one a blessing. He kneads slow, soothing circles into the thick of them, though he suspects he's more nervous than you are because the adrenaline quickly subsides and is replaced with a chorus of "is this okay? _"_ Your eyes twinkle down at him, bright with affection that almost manifests as physical warmth. In that moment, he hopes you never look at anything else. He lifts the hem of your skirt, revealing simple white cotton panties. 

"Ah..." Your anticipatory shivers seem to be contagious. His dick springs to life, straining against his jeans, and he does his best to ignore it. He's excited, he's too excited, but this is just for you—he doesn't want to focus on anything but you. Bringing your body pleasure seems deserved, a natural consequence of his feelings for you, but he's not sure how he feels about using your body for his pleasure yet. It's not something he wants to ponder right now. He wonders, not for the first time, exactly what it is that you see in him, what he's done to deserve you, but he never voices the question.

He runs a finger over the fabric of your panties before tugging them down with shaking hands, exposing your soft pink folds. "You're beautiful," he muses, voice so low he's not even sure if he intended for you to hear, so you catch him off-guard when you return, "So are you." 

Saeran gently kisses between your thighs—a slow, lingering kiss that builds against you before he gains the confidence to give you the barest lick. His velvety, warm tongue traces your slit with a generous wetness, like his mouth's been watering. He hesitates there, between your legs, inexperienced and unsure, but the way your hips cant forward into him is the only encouragement he needs. He plunges his tongue deeper into your folds, fully relishing in your sweet flavor and the way you clench around hin, and it's hard for him to believe you could get this _excited_ for him, that he's the one bringing you pleasure right now. He worries it's going to go to his head.

A finger slides along you to catch some stray moisture, then Saeran pops it in his mouth, letting out a pleased, muffled hum. He's going to get addicted to your taste, he thinks, and if anything, it re-invigorates his desire to survive this ordeal so that he might have more of you. He takes your clit in his mouth, suckling gently, continuing to prod at your entrance with his fingers—though he never pushes them fully in.

"S-Saeran...Ray..." you utter, and he's still not sure which name fits him anymore, but hearing either in your heady voice is pure rapture.

He moans against your core, feeling how your thighs twitch and shake, how you squirm beneath him, listening to your delicate, breathy little gasps. You come undone with a sharp cry, but his lips stay flush against you, edging out the remainder of your orgasm. He kisses your oversensitive clit softly a final time before retreating, lips wet and shining. To him, it's as though you're the only two people in the world here, right now. He wishes you were, wishes it had always been that way.

"That was so good," you practically purr, breaths ragged, and he doesn't know how to answer. You stroke his hair down, and it's heaven, he thinks. Better than heaven, because you're there. "You did so good." There's this overpowering sensation of eternity in the moment—like this is the culmination of his life, this is what it's all building up to, sleepy smiles with your fingers in his hair, your taste still fresh on his tongue, just a few of your kind words ringing in his ears. That's all there needs to be, he thinks. Everything else is just decoration. "I love you..."

For just a few minutes, he wants to stay like this, head in your lap, the past and the future both miles away. For just a few minutes, he wants to rest his eyes...


End file.
